I’m not sure I’m made for this.
Not just OMR. But the atmosphere around it.
The pace. The metrics. The conversations that flash like strobe lights—brief, bright, and rarely grounded.
It’s not that I reject it. It’s that I don’t fully belong to it.
And still, I go.
Not to fit in.
But to remain present.
Today we picked up my badge. The city was chilly again—colder than expected after the first hints of spring. The grey wasn’t heavy, but it asked for presence. For attention. For a warmer coffee cup held a little longer.
We stopped at Elbgold across from the festival grounds.
The coffee wasn’t just good—it was grounding.
Not just about caffeine, but about clarity.
That kind of warmth that reminds you of your edges.
That you have a body, a heartbeat, a choice.
We wandered through the Schanze with our child asleep in the stroller. The streets pulsed gently, nothing spectacular. But I watched closely. The quiet architecture of independent spaces. The residue of care in small things.
We ended up in a burger place—ordinary from the outside, unexpectedly human on the inside.
The food came fast, the kindness faster.
The truffle mayo didn’t just taste good—it made me laugh.
Because it was so much. So generous. So unnecessary—and exactly right.
And our child, waking up, sat and built things with colored pens.
No plan. No product. Just focus. Just freedom.
I watched him more than I looked at my phone.
And that felt like its own kind of protest.
Sunday is not for optimizing the week.
It’s for listening to it before it starts speaking too loudly.
I don’t know if I’ll thrive this next week.
I don’t know if I’ll “network well.”
I often doubt whether I even want to be visible in these spaces.
What I do know is this:
I can stay rooted.
I can choose my frequency before others define it for me.
I can be here—not performatively, but attentively.
That’s the real work for me.
Not to shrink away from visibility,
but to inhabit it with depth.
Not to reject the noise entirely,
but to hold a space inside myself that doesn’t echo it.
This week is not about reach.
It’s about relating—to others, to myself, to the words that want to be written.
I’m not arriving with answers.
I’m arriving with a tone.
With a way of looking.
With a body that notices.
When I write, I’m not reporting from the outside. I’m staying with the feeling inside the moment.
There is no strategy more resilient than presence.
No plan more precise than perception.
No scale more sustainable than sincerity.
And maybe that’s how I’ll move through this week:
Not with speed,
but with sovereignty.